


i wanna be (the only one you see)

by CutiePi



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Ambiguous Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Getting Together, M/M, Misunderstandings, No Spoilers, Post-Canon, The Great Fodlan Bakeoff, but DONT WORRY they work it out, no beta we die like Glenn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:28:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24647986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CutiePi/pseuds/CutiePi
Summary: Caspar and Linhardt see the world.
Relationships: Caspar von Bergliez/Linhardt von Hevring
Comments: 13
Kudos: 89





	i wanna be (the only one you see)

**Author's Note:**

> PHEW ok just under the wire i got this in for the Great Fodlan Bakeoff on twitter! PHEW
> 
> ambiguous route, altho theres like one line that implies its not azure moon. sorry about that. no warnings, enjoy!

“What are you doing now?”

Linhardt glances over at Caspar—he’s playing with the hem of his jacket, face screwed up like he’s, what, nervous?  _ Odd _ . “Currently? I’m drinking,” he says cheekily, polishing off his second glass of champagne—Dorothea had  _ assured _ him it had a low alcohol content, which he prefers so that he  _ doesn’t _ make a fool of himself.

“Not  _ now _ ,” Caspar says. He’s frowning—pouting, really—and looking at Linhardt intensely. “I mean, now that the war’s over. What are you gonna do?”

To be fair, Linhardt thinks, drinking is  _ also _ a valid answer to that question. But Caspar doesn’t look like he’s in the mood to deal with Linhardt being a shithead, so he honestly tells him, “I haven’t the faintest idea. I didn’t think I would get this far.” He didn’t mean to say that second part aloud—damn alcohol. He’s such a lightweight.

To his credit, Caspar takes it in stride, half-smiling. “Come on,” he says in that teasing tone he has—though he’s much quieter than usual, and Linhardt wonders why he’s being so grave about the whole thing. “I thought you made a promise to make it out of the war alive. Don’t tell me you thought you were gonna break it.”

Linhardt shrugs, toying with his empty glass and peering out at the crowd of dancers and inebriated celebrants.  _ The war’s over _ , he just keeps thinking,  _ It’s really over and you never have to fight again _ . “You’ll forgive me if I didn’t have full confidence.”

Caspar scoots a half an inch closer to nudge his elbow—any closer than that, he thinks dully, and they’ll be pressed together, shoulder-to-hip at  _ least _ . What a concept. “Well,” he says like it’s a casual offer, except there’s an underlying… oh,  _ something _ in his voice that Linhardt recognizes as meaning he’s being deadly serious. About what, he hasn’t the faintest idea. “I think I’m gonna travel. Explore the world. See what’s out there—now that everyone’s not fighting each other, I mean.”

Linhardt shifts away a bit, suddenly hot—and he should have been hot this whole time, between the drinks and the crowd, but suddenly it’s  _ uncomfortable _ , and he can’t stand quite so close to Caspar’s glow. He looks stubbornly out at the crowd of former-soldiers and says, mildly, “Have fun with that.”

He feels Caspar’s eyes on him and refuses to look and see whatever emotion is written on his face. At length, he says, softly, “Lin. I kinda… was hoping you’d come with me.”

Damn alcohol making him hear things—and making him blush, yes, surely that  _ had _ to be the reason. His head jerks around to meet Caspar’s gaze head-on—he’s smiling nervously, still fidgeting with the frayed sleeve of his coat. “Beg pardon?” he says, a bit pitchier than he would have liked.

Caspar breaks into a wide grin. “I said, I want you to come with me. But if you’re too busy with some other best friend–”

It’s the two glasses of champagne he’s had, obviously, that make him grab Caspar’s hand and grin back. “Caspar,” he says, sounding stupidly breathless, “ _ yes _ .”

* * *

“This was a mistake,” Linhardt grouses, accompanied by another crack of thunder and the iron grip around his waist tightening.

He gets blissful silence—if the sound of rain pounding and dripping into the cave they’re using as shelter counts as  _ silence _ —for just a few moments before Caspar, cautiously—does he think the storm’s going to  _ hear _ him?—answers, “The weather was s–” He’s interrupted by another  _ boom _ , and continues his sentence with a significantly higher voice, “–supposed to be clear for the next  _ week _ !”

“Evidently not,” Linhardt says dryly. Well, dry in tone. And in  _ absolutely nothing else _ , since the rain’s thoroughly soaked him, and Caspar, who’s pressed against his side and trembling like a leaf. “But I was actually referring to agreeing to travel with you at all. I should have known it would be such a bother.”

Caspar’s face emerges from Linhardt’s side, pouting. “Oh, come on, Lin, don’t be an aaaaASS!” He finishes on a squeak as the thunder rolls, interrupting him  _ again _ . Some luck.

“You love it when I’m an ass,” he says mildly. “It takes your mind off the storm. And it makes me incredibly charming.”

“You wish,” Caspar mutters against his chest. Linhardt sniffs—so rude. He was the one who  _ asked _ him to be here. Honestly.

Rudeness doesn’t stop him from giving Caspar a gentle scalp massage as the storm rages overhead. And as the thunder rolls in ever closer, he finds Caspar’s hand and holds it tight, an old, worn grounding charm caught between their palms.

* * *

“So,” Caspar says in a tone that can mean  _ nothing  _ good, “there’s good news, and there’s bad news.”

Linhardt’s resting in the shade beside the river, trying out the new fishing technique he’d heard of in the last town. Namely, lying down with a string tied to his big toe. It combines two of his favorite activities, which is good, because judging by Caspar’s tone they are  _ absolutely _ lost. “What’s the good news?” he asks grimly, peeking one eye open to look at him as he sits heavily next to him beneath the tree.

“...You get more time to practice toe fishing?”

Linhardt snorts, closing his eye and lying back. He isn’t all that upset, honestly—they’ve been at this long enough that he’s well-accustomed to being lost, and besides, as Caspar reminds him every time he wants to spend an extra day in town reading through their library, they aren’t in any sort of rush. “The world’s not  _ going _ anywhere!” he’d always say, flinging his arms out. Adorable.

That being said, he’d hate to spend another night on the ground; it’s particularly hard in this area, and he makes a mental note to look into geographical reasons for tight-packed soil next time they come across someplace with half-decent reference books. “Alright,” he says, sitting up; Caspar starts, like he thought Linhardt would fall asleep to get out of the conversation. It’s a tragically fair assumption, though he is doing less of that lately. “Let me see the map, and I’ll try to get us back on track.”

“Uh.” Caspar’s peering at him oddly; the dappled sunlight through the leaves is making his eyes an intriguing seaglass color, and it splotches prettily across his face. “I, um, think we might’ve made a wrong turn a while back…” He gives himself a little shake and slings his bag off his shoulders, pulling out their rolled up. Locals in the last town had drawn out a route for them to the next village; they’re getting closer and closer to Almyra, the first international stop on their tour of everything, having, in Caspar’s words, “conquered Fódlan”.

“A bit grim, don’t you think?” Linhardt had remarked, back when Caspar had all but  _ shouted _ it in the middle of a busy tavern in the middle of what used to be, in recent memory, Faerghus. Caspar had given him a weird look, and it took several glaring patrons who obviously recognized their Imperial accents for him to understand the problem and turn a brilliant red. Linhardt laughed until Caspar was sputtering excuses and shoving at him, at which point he finally agreed that it might be best to get  _ far _ away from the recovering Fódlan.

Now, he spreads the map out on the ground between them and looks over the scribbled notes from the small committee of townsfolk Caspar had assembled. He manages to spot a thin blue line he  _ thinks _ is their river and tries to work from there. “I think…” he says, tracing the drawn route. “Yes. I’ve found our path.” He looks up at Caspar, who isn’t looking at the map at all but is looking at Linhardt intently. Linhardt, rather stupidly, stares back for a few moments, captivated by his bright eyes, the way the light makes his cheeks look pink

Caspar startles what feels like an eternity later, snapping his focus down to the map. “That’s great,” he says, voice strained. “Cool. So… are we on track to get to a village by nightfall, then?”

Business. Right. They’ll have time for… whatever that was later. Linhardt clears his throat, looking back at the map. “We could, if we set out now and keep a steady pace.” He doesn’t hide his reluctance to do so—he’s having fun, and he  _ hates _ hurrying.

Caspar knows this, because he knows almost everything about him. He catches Linhardt’s gaze, smiling in that cheeky way he has. “Well, what’s one more night on the ground?”

Linhardt smiles back, rolling up the map and handing it to him. “My thoughts exactly,” he says, settling back in to resume toe-fishing. All things considered, it’s a fair trade-off, a night on the hard ground for a day of rest and relaxation.

* * *

Almyra is beautiful, and  _ new _ , and distressingly mountainous—Linhardt’s never been so grateful for a mount as he is for the sturdy mules that navigate the trails up and down the cliffs for them.

The craggy landscape has its own advantages, however. Caspar calls him out of his tent late one night, and Linhardt sets aside his travel journal to join him outside. He’s bouncing with excitement at whatever he wants to show him, eyes glinting in the dark, saying, “Come on, come on, it’s super great!”

“It’s super  _ cold _ ,” Linhardt replies, just to complain. His irritated tone sounds fake, even to him, and Caspar’s grin widens as he grabs his hand and pulls him after him. “You know, my tent was at least secure against the wind–”

“Aw, shut up,” Caspar says good-naturedly. “Don’t be an ass. We’re here.”

_ Here _ is a few yards from camp, where Caspar’s spread his bedroll on the ground for padding. He gestures at it, every inch the nobleman inviting him to a seat at his finest tea table, and Linhardt obligingly sits. Caspar plonks down next to him, practically vibrating with excitement. “Okay,” he says. “Okay, okay, so–check this out. Look up.”

Linhardt raises an eyebrow, but at Caspar’s beseeching look he obliges. His eyes widen at the sight—the sky is full of stars, more than he’s ever seen, all shining brightly down at him. “Oh,” he murmurs, at an utter loss for words. He’s never seen a sky as beautiful as this.

“Yeah,” Caspar says quietly, like he’s afraid of ruining the moment. As far as Linhardt’s concerned, that’s impossible. “Really pretty, right? I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many stars at once.”

“No,” he says, softly. “In the mountains, the air is thinner—it must be easier to see even distant stars. Caspar–” He tears his gaze away from the sky to look at him, only to find Caspar’s not even looking at the sky. He’s looking at  _ him _ , a small but infinitely gentle smile on his face, his eyes crinkled at the corners. “Caspar,” he whispers, suddenly breathless, “this is…”

There are no words. Caspar seems to understand, his smile widening just the slightest bit. “Come on,” he says softly, “point out the constellations to me. I can never keep the stories straight.”

They spend an hour sitting on the ground, looking up at the sky, as Linhardt points out constellations and Caspar tries to remember the stories behind them. Eventually, though, the cold creeps beneath Linhardt’s skin, and he shivers. Caspar peers at him, frowning. “Sorry,” he says, “I forgot you said you were cold. Here.” He shrugs off his coat and holds it out to Linhardt, who stares at it stupidly for a few moments before taking it. He wraps it around his shoulders, trying not to blatantly sniff to see if it smelled like Caspar.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, and then they lapse into silence. It’s not an uncomfortable silence, by any means, but at the same time, Linhardt’s well-versed in what a comfortable silence with Caspar feels like, and this decisively  _ isn’t it _ . He’s still trying to think of what more to say when Caspar speaks up.

“So, Linhardt,” he says, somehow reminiscent of how he’d sounded at a victory celebration what feels like a lifetime ago and a world away, “what are your ambitions?”

Linhardt looks over at him, raising an eyebrow dubiously. “My  _ ambitions _ ? Whatever do you mean by that?”

Caspar looks a bit sheepish. “I just thought ‘ambitions’ sounded fancy. I mean dreams.”

Linhardt laughs out loud at that, unexpectedly tickled, and once Caspar realizes he’s not being made fun of (it doesn’t take long—Linhardt doesn’t make fun of him), he joins in, raucous enough to wake every other living thing on the mountain, probably. When it dies down, there’s another short silence— _ definitely _ comfortable this time, in a very familiar way—before Linhardt says, a touch shy, “I can’t say I have much in the way of ambitions, but as for dreams… there is one, I suppose.”

He feels Caspar’s eyes on him but resolutely looks up at the stars overhead. “Tell me?”

“Mm.” He pulls Caspar’s coat tighter around him. “I’d like to settle someplace quiet. A little cottage on the outskirts of a village. I’ve been studying agriculture–” Completely by accident, but traveling through all those farming villages had awoken a bit of a fixation in him, “–and I’d like to try having a garden, just to see if it’s worthwhile. There’d be a pond or a river nearby so I could fish. I might keep some livestock, I don’t know. Nothing fancy, maybe a few hens.” He sighs wistfully, eyes slipping shut. He can  _ picture _ it, clear as day. “And I could leave every now and then to go out and buy books for my library. And–”

He breaks off, eyes opening again. In his dream, he’s not alone, of course—it’s a dream, isn’t it? He can indulge as much as he likes, no matter how unrealistic the fantasy. But he can’t say this aloud. Better to hang onto what he has now than reach for something more and risk losing what’s most precious to him.

Caspar waits a few moments for him to continue before saying, softly, “That sounds nice, Lin.”

He looks over at him, traitorous hope blooming in his chest. “You think so?”

Caspar smiles, easy as anything, and covers Linhardt’s hand lying lonely on the blanket with his own. “Yeah,” he says, voice whisper-soft.

Linhardt looks at their hands on the blanket, feeling his eyes on him, until Caspar finally says, “Hey, what about that one? What was that called?”

Linhardt turns his gaze back to the stars, the odd moment gone, but Caspar’s hand remains warm over his own, a tether to the earth.

* * *

Linhardt hears Caspar come into their room and shut the door behind him, but he doesn’t look up from his book until Caspar says, voice trembly with nerves, “Um, Linhardt?”

Linhardt looks up sharply at him; he’s shaking a little and twisting his fingers together, and he sucks in a deep breath and says, “Um, so do you remember, a little bit ago, when you were talking about, uh, your dream?”

He opens his mouth to reply; Caspar, gaze fixed on his feet, clearly misses this and barrels on. “Um, so I was just, uh, thinking, and I know I said then that, um, I liked it, right? And I mean, I didn’t mean it like that. I mean I did, I do like it. But I didn’t just like it for you, um, I mean–”

Linhardt frowns, stamping down the pounding of his heart, but Caspar’s barely pausing for breath, let alone long enough for him to butt in. “What I  _ mean _ , is, um, it sounds great! But I feel like you could get, uh, lonely, and I don’t want that. I MEAN! No one wants that! But, uh, I also don’t want that, so I wonder if, um, your cottage has room for one more?”

His heart jumps into his throat, and he stands, slowly approaching Caspar like he’s a frightened animal. He shrinks back a bit, babbling faster, gaze locked firmly on the floor. “Because, um, I’d like to, uh, try that too. I mean it sounds  _ really _ good, and I know you only signed up for traveling but I just wonder how you’d feel if I stuck around and, um–”

“Caspar,” he says, coming to a halt right in front of him. Caspar winces, face beet red, but Linhardt’s hand finds his cheek as he says, softly, “Caspar,” and Caspar raises his eyes up and–

Caspar’s looking at him with an open expression of awe and fear at once, like he’s staring at the sun—something beautiful that will burn him if he gets too close. Linhardt’s heart flutters in his chest—that’s him. Caspar’s looking at  _ him _ like that. “ _ Caspar _ ,” he says again, suddenly at a loss for anything else to say, and then they’re kissing, of course,  _ of course _ , like it’s the easiest thing in the world, because it is. Somehow, it absolutely is.

* * *

“I’m such an idiot,” Linhardt says an eternity later, and Caspar laughs softly.

“That’s my line,” he says, pressing a tender kiss to his knuckles, and Linhardt nearly swoons, instead opting to drag Caspar back in to kiss him again.

* * *

After Almyra, they set out for Brigid—”On the opposite side of the world,” Linhardt complains, and Caspar squeezes his hand and laughs—traveling miserably over water by  _ boat _ . They spend time in the capital, of course, and Petra is overjoyed to see them, but they’re off after only a few weeks to see the rest of the country.

The rest of the country, they learn from Petra, includes Bernadetta. She apparently came to Brigid a year ago to sketch its fauna and find inspiration for her writing; she still hasn’t left, so they head out to her home in the woods. It’s small and secluded, overgrown and likely by its resident’s design, but Bernie still comes rushing out to meet them, skin tanned—has Linhardt  _ ever _ seen her anything but pasty pale?—and hair shorn close to the head. “It’s so hot,” she says good-naturedly as she leads them in to make them some cold, refreshing drink. “I can’t stand having my hair too long. But, um, maybe once I leave, I’ll let it grow out.”

“You do have pretty hair, Bernadetta,” Caspar says, and she goes pink and ramblingly asks about their travels.

It isn’t long before Caspar’s too antsy to sit inside anymore and hops up to take a look around, and then it’s just Linhardt and Bernadetta, sipping the cool, sour-sweet drink she’d made them. They’re in silence for a long time, broken only intermittently by quiet attempts of smalltalk they each let peter out. It isn’t as if either of them minds the quiet, not really. At length, Bernadetta says, hesitantly, “So. You and Caspar…”

Linhardt hums, suppressing his smile. “Yes?” he says, because of course he’s not going to just give it to her.

Bernie pouts at him. “Come on. Don’t make me say it!”

Linhardt laughs softly. “I can’t answer a question you haven’t asked, Bernadetta.”

“Didn’t  _ use _ to be a problem,” she grumbles, before she musters all her courage and asks, sounding much more like the squeaky Bernie he remembers, “Are you two… you know… together?”

Linhardt takes a long sip of his drink, mostly just to keep her in suspense. She watches him carefully, wide-eyed, until finally he says, “Yes.”

Bernadetta  _ squeals _ . “Oh, that’s wonderful! I’m so happy for you two–it’s been such a long time coming–”

Linhardt huffs, cheeks pink, and not even from sunburn. “Yes, yes. Well, now you know.”

“You should tell everyone else!” she says, eyes gleaming with excitement. “They’ll be happy to know–”

“I will do  _ no _ such thing–”

“Because, you know, Caspar was  _ so worried _ about it, he went to just about everyone for advice–”

That catches him off guard. “Beg pardon?” he asks, blinking.

Bernadetta stops, immediately looking guilty. “O-oh,” she says nervously. “Well, you know, back when he was planning to travel. He was really worried about asking you to come with him, and he kept asking everyone else how he should ask you about it, and…”

Linhardt feels a rush of warmth, of inescapable  _ fondness _ for this man. “Really,” he says, “he’s ridiculous. Of course I would have gone with him no matter how he asked.”

Bernie peeks up at him, smiling hesitantly. “Y-yes. Well. He knows that  _ now _ .” Which is a fair point. “You two are so  _ lucky _ ,” she says, sighing wistfully. “Having someone you know is going to be by your side for the rest of your life…”

Linhardt goes red, heart stuttering. “Now–I don’t–”  _ Ugh _ , he needs to get it together. “Let’s not get too hasty.”

The Bernadetta of their school days would’ve flushed and back-tracked. This new one, though, smiles mischievously. “What’s wrong, Linhardt?” she asks innocently. “You seem flustered.”

“Lin!” Caspar bursts back in, braced in the doorway, glowing. “You have  _ got _ to see this plant, it’s insane!”

“You should,” Bernadetta agrees. She’s become so cruel. “We can talk later, Linhardt.”

“I hope not,” he hisses, and she giggles— _ giggles _ —as Caspar grabs his hand and drags him out.

* * *

They see the world together, Almyra and Brigid and Sreng and Morfis and Duscur, and Caspar’s started saying, “What if we do Fódlan  _ again _ ? That was fun,” because really, once they’re finished in Dagda, they’ll have seen everything they can reasonably see, and besides, Fódlan holds a special place in each of their hearts.

They can’t do that, though, until Caspar finishes up whatever business he has in Dagda.  _ If _ he ever finishes.

They’ve been in this town for weeks, which is far longer than they normally spend in a place full of strangers, and Caspar is still, inexplicably, busy. At first, they’d gone out together to look at the shops and practice their Dagdan; now, though, Caspar ducks out early, before Linhardt’s fully awake, and doesn’t say where he’s going. Or rather, he does, but he’s obviously lying.

“Sorry, Lin,” he says this morning, half-out the door. “But this smith is gonna show me how he makes swords–” Linhardt waves him off and rolls over, curling up beneath the covers and trying to find sleep.

“ _ I think _ ,” he says in broken Dagdan to the innkeep, a little old woman who at the very least  _ seems _ to like them, “ _ he is finding a… pretty man. And is making kisses with him. _ ” He’s half-joking, but only half. He’s ashamed to admit he’s actually quite upset by Caspar’s secrecy—what does he have to hide? Surely, by now, they’re past the point of hiding things from one another.

“ _ Your man loves you _ ,” the innkeep says, annoyed. “ _ Don’t be a fool _ .” Which is precisely what he’s telling himself.

“He’s keeping secrets,” he says stubbornly, falling back into Fodlán. “He doesn’t do that. And he doesn’t want me coming with him.” They’re supposed to go everywhere together. Why would Caspar want him gone, unless…

She snorts. “You are very stupid. He want you. All couples need private time.” Very fair, he thinks. He just wishes he could shake the feeling…

“He’s acting different. He’s nervous. Doesn’t that sound suspicious to you?”

The innkeep throws her hands up with a “Bah!” and leaves him, muttering in Dagdan as she goes. Which is also very fair.

* * *

Caspar returns late that night, entering quietly, as if he can escape Linhardt’s notice when their room is practically just the door and the bed. He starts when he sees Linhardt still awake, reading in bed.  _ Guilty _ . He hates the roiling feeling in his gut. “Hey, Linny,” he says, voice wavery. Ugh.  _ Ugh _ . “Didn’t think you’d still be up.”

“I was waiting for you,” he says flatly.

“O-oh? Well, uh, here I am!” Caspar climbs in bed beside him, curling up close and kissing his shoulder. Linhardt doesn’t curl into like he normally would. In fact, he doesn’t acknowledge him at all, flipping the page of his book even though he isn’t absorbing a single word.

“You’ve been gone all day.” His voice trembles a little with emotion—he’s so, so… angry. He’s  _ angry _ .

Caspar, predictably, doesn’t notice. “I know, but don’t worry, Lin, ‘cause I’m gonna spend all  _ day _ tomorrow–”

“Caspar,” he says, voice hard. “I need you to be honest with me.”

Caspar withdraws, sitting up ramrod straight and looking at him with wide eyes. “Huh?”

“You spend all your time out–” He sets his book aside and turns to Caspar, face screwed up and probably a blotchy sort of red. “You never want me to come along, you’re  _ obviously _ lying about where you’ve been–”

“Lin, wh–”

“–Just tell me. Just  _ tell me _ .” His voice is shaking, and his hands are shaking, and he think he might cry so he blinks rapidly and lets himself be  _ angry _ instead. “If you’re tired of me–if you’ve found someone else–you might as well say–”

“Lin,” Caspar says, and it’s enough to shut him up because he’s so quiet, and worse—he’s sad. He’s so sad. “Oh, Lin. No, no, I’m so sorry, Lin–”

Caspar’s reaching for him, and even though Linhardt’s a storm of emotions he lets Caspar draw him into his arms and kiss his forehead. “I’m so sorry,” he says, sounding like  _ he’s _ going to cry. “Lin, I’m sorry, I never meant–”

“Be honest with me,” he says, except now he sounds whiny and pathetic and he hates it. “Please, I just need to hear the truth.”

Caspar takes a deep, shuddering breath. “There’s no one else,” he says quietly. “ _ Goddess _ , Lin, there couldn’t be anyone else. I’m so sorry–I wanted to surprise you–but I’m such an idiot–”

“No,” Linhardt says. “You’re not. But–I–what–”

Caspar pulls back and holds up a finger— _ one second _ —then goes to his bag, digging around and returning with a small pouch. “I wanted to surprise you,” he whispers. “But I didn’t think… I’m really sorry, Lin, I didn’t know you were hurting so bad…”

He passes Linhardt the bag, and Linhardt pulls out its content, and he stares stupidly at a beautifully-crafted ring.

“Oh,” he says dumbly.

“Uh,” Caspar laughs, high-pitched and anxious, “yeah. Oh. I was trying to set up a nice day, get the ring designed, but, uh. I didn’t really think how it must look, so…”

“ _ Caspar _ ,” he says hoarsely, because really, what else is there to say? What else is there?

“So, yeah,” Caspar says. “I know I’m pretty stupid, uh, obviously, but I guess, uh. I’d like it if you gave me a chance. And, um. I wanted to ask you to marry me.”

Linhardt’s feeling too many things at once. The first, and most important, is shame. “I’m an idiot,” he whispers. “Fuck, Caspar. I–” He sets it all aside because he needs to touch Caspar, needs to take his face in his hands and pull him close. “I’m so sorry, Caspar–”

“It’s okay, Lin, it’s okay–”

“I’m a complete and absolute idiot, and  _ yes _ , Caspar, yes, of course, yes–” He kisses him hard and hopes it’s enough to say everything he doesn’t know how to— _ I’m sorry _ and  _ I love you _ and  _ You’re not an idiot, it’s me, it’s most certainly me who’s the idiot here _ and  _ How could I ever doubt you? Really, how could I? _ He breaks off for air and says, “Caspar, if you still want to marry a complete fool then yes, of course I’ll marry you–oh!” He blinks. “Oh, is that why you’ve wanted to return to Fódlan so terribly?”

Caspar looks dazed, but he seems to process everything Linhardt’s saying and  _ grins _ . “Uh huh,” he says, giddy, “I thought, a wedding in Fódlan, so all our friends could come. Lin, you–” He cups his cheek, trembling. “You mean it? You really want–”

“Yes, Caspar, yes,  _ yes _ –” And they still have so much to talk about—so many apologies to make—but Linhardt feels light and full, because of course: there could never be anyone else. They’re stuck together.

They always will be.

**Author's Note:**

> YAYYYY we love gay rights!
> 
> follow my writing twitter @cutestofpis! leave a comment if you liked! and have a great day!


End file.
